


Equinox

by eyegnats



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: And Then Adulthood, Angst, Best Friends, But Faerghus is the Antagonist, Childhood, Childhood Friend Trio, Childhood Trauma, Culture exploration, Faerghus (Fire Emblem), Hypocritical Boar Felix, M/M, Miklan may be the Villain, No Officer's Academy, Protective Felix, Protective Ingrid, Violence, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25489729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyegnats/pseuds/eyegnats
Summary: Two fights with Miklan, almost a decade apart.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	Equinox

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to describe this fic as "heavy," so I've included a comprehensive list of content warnings in the footnote. Most everything is an elaboration on referenced canon, but feel free to glance down at those if you would prefer to proceed with with caution (or subsequently not proceed at all). 
> 
> As a more general warning: Faerghus.

AUTUMN

Sylvain is left behind at the frigid, mountain camp while the men—spearheaded by his father, Ingrid’s father, Felix’s father, The King—set out on their hunting party to slay a boar for a feast. They depart on horseback, laughing, lances in their hands and a socially acceptable bloodlust thrumming in their veins. Sylvain watches them go, leaving him and the rest of the children to play war games and spar with wooden weapons. It is not enjoyable. Sylvain feels the ache in his chest that finds him whenever he is left alone to his own survival, left alone with his brother.

The water is so cold but burns hot in his throat. He grasps around blind for air, the little river suddenly violent and all-encompassing. He feels numb. A thick hand is at his neck. It leaves bruises in the soft divots around his Adam’s apple. It holds him under. It lifts him up and calls him worthless and kept, bred like a showpony, unsuited for the wild. It taunts him to fight back. It begs for him to use his crest, to prove what makes him so special. Sylvain can only provide a strained voice for mercy before he is shoved back down again. His head swims in the icy depths. He feels no buzz of heat in his blood that might be a minor crest come to play savior. His vision darkens. His lungs find no air. He has not stopped feeling numb.

The hand drops him. Sudden, and without fanfare. He sinks, deeper into the shallow stream, his face colliding with the rough bottom before smaller, frantic fingers pull at his waterlogged clothing and attempt to drag him back ashore. He’s tugged, limp and unhelpful, away from the waterline. Someone is screaming. Several people are screaming: different tones and commotions clashing into his ears when he’s pulled from the muffling water and back into reality. Ingrid is calling his name. Her hands are tiny compared to Miklan’s. She’s two years Sylvain’s younger but she’s yelling and using all her strength to roll him on his side and strike his back and asking him to “breathe, Sylvain.” She’s distressed and he hates it. “Please. Please, breathe. Breathe.”

He coughs, and his lungs heave and burn and expel water he did not know he was harboring onto the pebbles beneath him. He gasps for air only once it’s all forfeit. Every inch of his insides feel rubbed raw. Ingrid is still shaking him. He wants to tell her he’s alive but his throat isn’t reacting to his calls for a voice. His body will not move. He feels like a fish pulled from the undertow and slapped upon a deck—body immobile, but eyes wide and open and darting around in terror.

“He’s breathing!” she calls out.

“I’ll kill you,” a voice says, but it is not Miklan. Sylvain sees Felix. Felix is nine years old and thrumming with a strength he is too young to control. Sylvain watches him where he has straddled himself over Miklan. Sylvain watches him throw fist after fist, little mosquitoes biting at Miklan’s body until his crest triggers and the mosquito is a blunt spear, bruising and powerful and splitting skin with its impact. Over and over, Felix throws his little nine year old fists. Every third or fourth punch his crest triggers and Miklan’s eyes go wide and Sylvain listens to his older brother cry out in pain. “I’ll kill you!” Felix is saying, hair falling wild in his face and his bright eyes unfocused. “I will. I can. If you ever—If you even _look at him—_ “

“Felix?”

Everyone draws still. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of their bitter, cold country, stands in their little clearing off the bank and just out of sight from the larger camp. He’s staring at Felix. Felix looks back at him, body speckled with a red splatter that leaks freely down Miklan’s face. Dimitri takes an uncertain step back. He looks between Felix, wild and unashamed and running with a lethal temper, to Miklan, battered and broken, to Sylvain, half-conscious, to Ingrid, still propping up his body and coaxing it to breathe. Dimitri is unsure. “Felix—“ he starts again, but Ingrid intervenes.

“Your Highness,” she says. “Go get Glenn. Please.”

Dimitri nods with a wide-eyed expression. He trips over himself as he departs back towards camp. Sylvain watches him go. He feels a deep, terrible shame in his gut at royal witness to the scene.

“I’ll kill you,” Felix is whispering over Miklan. His voice is shaking, on the verge of tears. His fist digs into the ground beside Miklan’s face. Twists left and right, drilling into the dirt. “Touch him again and I’ll do it.”

Miklan is a third bigger than Felix and seizes an opportunity in the brief pause of violence. He charges upwards, furious and barreling forward like a cornered animal with nothing left to lose. He sinks his teeth into Felix’s arm and Felix cries out. He rips back, tearing through winter clothing and skin and throwing Felix to the ground. Sylvain attempts to sit up, to help, to stop the violence, but his arms are unstable and buckle beneath him.

“No,” he says, not loud enough to float above the din.

“Felix!” Ingrid screams.

Ingrid abandons Sylvain’s side and he can do nothing but watch as she throws her shoulder into Miklan. It unbalances him, the older boy tilting off-center just enough for Felix to drag himself out from beneath his pin. Then, they’re brawling. Sylvain has seen violent tomcat fights in the streets of Gautier but these are kits, all of them, young and weaponized and brutal and intending to draw blood. They’re better trained than they have any right to be for their age. They’re more prepared to harm than Sylvain wishes to understand.

“Stop,” he croaks out. Felix’s arm is bleeding. Ingrid shoves him out of the way of an incoming strike and takes a bodyhit. Miklan shows no remorse. “Please,” Sylvain says. “Stop.”

“Sylvain?” An older voice rings out across the scene. Reason and relief cuts through the seemingly unstoppable chaos. Glenn Fraldarius is tall and teenage and everything Sylvain and his friends want to be. Everything they are not, currently, as he lays defeated upon the ground and they pummel small, uncoordinated hands into an opponent bigger and tougher than they can fell. “—Felix,” Glenn calls, he’s running towards them. “Felix. Ingrid—Fuck.”

“Glenn!” Ingrid exclaims. The lower half of her face is covered in blood, streaking down and undignified from her nose. Felix does not heed his brother’s arrival, even as Ingrid pulls herself back from the fray. Glenn steps forward and into the battlefield that’s formed between the two boys. He plucks Felix up and off of Miklan easily. Felix’s body continues to throw punches until his situation sinks in and he falls still, like a scruffed kitten. Miklan dips his knees, ready to lunge, but Glenn shoots him a sharp glare.

“One Fraldarius is a tiff, two is a declaration,” Glenn states. Miklan is young but not so young he doesn’t understand the delicacies of Kingdom borders and powerful neighbors and angering too many crested, young heirs with reputations for quick tempers. Glenn is bigger. Glenn is dangerous. He backs down, so far down that he falls to the ground in a sit, dragging himself back and away from the elder Fraldarius.

“Put me down,” Felix says. His face is scrunched with tears. “‘M tired of it,” he says. “I’m tired of not doing anything. I won’t not do anything.”

Glenn only pulls him closer. “I know,” he says. “I know, I know. I understand, wolfpup. We’ve spoken about this.” Felix is a year or so too old to be held like this, but Glenn supports his legs and Felix draws his arms around Glenn’s neck and settles, there, against his chest. Felix sniffs. His limbs shake where his crest has struck too many times through young muscles in such a short amount of time. Glenn rubs at them with remembrance and sympathy.

Glenn turns his attention to Ingrid, nods to her. “Are you alright, Lady Galatea?” he asks. “You have… Is that your blood?”

“Sylvain wasn’t breathing,” she states. 

Glenn looks over. “Are you alright, Sylvain?”

A broad, false smile strikes itself across Sylvain’s face. He pulls himself up, for Glenn. “Breathing,” he says, with a wheeze of false laughter. 

Glenn does not offer any noticeable reaction. He simply stares at Sylvain, over Sylvain, through Sylvain. Sylvain shirks down at the attention. Lowers his shoulders. Looks away. Miklan growls in frustration from where he lies low and defensive. “Good,” Glenn says, finally. “I’ll take you at your word.”

“And just what do we have here?” 

A loud declaration echoes over all of them. Men and horses stamp into the clearing after Glenn, onto the riverbank where the five of them are squared off. Sylvain has only interacted with the King of Faerghus on occasion and his breath hitches in panic as the most powerful man in Fodlan surveys the scene before him. “Interesting,” The King nods, continuing, his voice amused. “It looks as if we have a common border dispute on our hands, gentlemen.”

Laughter emanates from the men around him. The hunting party is freshly returned, a few of their spears tipped with boar’s blood. Sylvain sees Felix’s father exchanging a disapproving glance with his two sons. Sylvain sees his own father, the Margrave stone-faced in a quiet fury.

“—Ingrid,” Count Galatea calls. He startles from the group of adults. He falls to his knees in front of his daughter, lifting his hands to cup her face. “Are you hurt? There’s blood—Oh, your beautiful face—“

“I’m fine,” she says, tugging her head away from his paternal grip. She gestures towards the riverbank. “Sylvain wasn’t _breathing—_ “

“Reparations are in order, I think.” Margrave Gautier steps forward, then. Sylvain struggles to sit up at his father’s insurgence into the conversation. The Margrave’s face carries a complete lack of expression. His heavy, gloved hand falls on Count Galatea’s shoulder. “My apologies, old friend. My boys play rough and often don’t notice when someone is caught in the crossfire.” Count Galatea looks up at him. Margrave Gautier nods. “I know how dear your daughter is to you. I’ll send something along to Galatea for the trouble.”

“...Of course,” The Count says. He stands, and takes Ingrid by the hand. Sylvain watches peace be reaffirmed among borders and Ingrid be tugged away and into the semi-circle that has formed around the scene. Sylvain sees her horrified face, the way she looks at him with pity and distress but cannot voice a word of her dissent. Galatea is in too fragile of a position to cause waves. Ingrid knows this, even at her age, but Sylvain can see the thirst for justice in her eyes despite any precariousness it may cause to her territory.

“Miklan was going to kill Sylvain,” Felix states, blunt. Fraldarius shares no such political concern. Felix knows this, even at his age, and takes full advantage of the privilege.

The group of huntsman falls silent. The Margrave’s gaze lowers to a glare, though Sylvain cannot tell if it is at Miklan or Felix. Sylvain’s chest beats with an anxiety deeper than he felt in the throws of unconsciousness. Miklan’s face twists into a snarl. Felix’s, to a determined pout.

King Lambert laughs again. It’s a great, booming thing. Glenn pulls Felix tighter to his chest.

“Oh? Is that so, little Fraldarius?” King Lambert coaxes. Crown Prince Dimitri is at his side, tucked near his legs and watching Felix with the same wide-eyed confusion he had before. The King presses on, “and have you seen many attempted murders over your short time in Faerghus, young one?” 

More laughter. Felix looks furious. “Sylvain wasn’t breathing,” he spits, directly at his King.

Felix’s father steps forward for damage control. His hands are tucked behind his back. “Your Majesty,” he starts, in apology.

“I’m teasing,” King Lambert says. “Teasing! I deserve it. Look at his face, Rodrigue. Such distaste. This one has a protective streak only a Fraldarius could carry. He’ll serve my boy well.” King Lambert claps Dimitri, callously rough but pleased, across the back. Dimitri stumbles forward at the impact.

Felix’s father glances over at his youngest son. “Even so. He knows better than to address His Majesty with such informality. And with such accusations.”

“It’s the truth,” Felix cements, and even Glenn makes a soft shushing noise at him, now.

“Felix,” Felix’s father warns.

Margrave Gautier smiles, and steps towards him, and breathes out a sigh. “Now, now. You and your formalities,” he says, “No need for pardons. No one has been hurt seriously, have they?”

Sylvain struggles to a stand as agreements echo from the crowd. The wind has returned to his chest and his legs are firm with the pressure of the surrounding men watching him, demanding him to let the situation fall aside and into the past. His thick, autumn clothing is soaked to the bone.

“Everyone is fine! This is why your eldest is so hotheaded, Rodrigue. And why your youngest is so intent on following his footsteps,” the Margrave adds. The same, endless cacophony of laughter follows. “It’s simple rebellion.”

“My boys don’t threaten to kill one another,” Felix’s father replies.

Suddenly the little bankside is cold, again. Sylvain can feel the chill settle across the clearing. Duke Fraldarius is sallow-faced and serious and the second most powerful man in the country. Sylvain’s father falls still.

“Ah,” the Margrave says, “I speak in jest, of course.”

“Of course,” Duke Fraldarius says. 

“My son is no better,” the Margrave tacks on, quickly, waving to Miklan. “Bitter things, at this age. Mindless to rules.”

“I wasn’t aware you cared,” Duke Fraldarius responds. Sylvain thinks it might be the closest anyone has ever come to saying something. Anything. It’s the barest implication, but it sets shame alight across Sylvain’s chest and makes him wish he hadn’t bothered to stand up and face the gathered hunting party. He wishes he were sitting in the dirt, hunched over and brooding, like Miklan. He wishes he were anywhere else, anyone else.

“My son often stokes fights like this,” the Margave replies, finally. “I’d hope such trivial things wouldn’t trouble your mind. You’ve got your own boys to look over, after all.”

“I do.” There’s a pause. Sylvain wonders for a long, terrifying moment if Felix’s father will press the issue, drag out everyone’s suffering. “Boys can be such a handful,” he says, instead. He offers a false smile. He lifts both his arms in surrender. “Just one more and I’d run out of hands.” 

Margrave Gautier laughs. King Lambert laughs. The men around them laugh.

“There,” King Lambert says, smiling. “We’re all friends, yes? No harm done. Let us not forget we were all once scrappy, emboldened young men waging war where we could.”

“You say that like you aren’t still, Your Majesty,” Margrave Gautier laughs. King Lambert laughs. Duke Fraldarius laughs. Everyone laughs and Sylvain feels sick to his stomach. 

His eyes flit to Ingrid. She’s wiped her face off on the sleeve of her dress and the light, turquoise color is splotched with rust. She is hurt and he hates it. She has not taken her eyes off him. Felix, who is on the edge of tears, does not look to him at all. Glenn whispers something in the youngest Fraldarius’ ear and he scrunches his eyes shut and shakes his head, the arms looped around Glenn’s neck closing their hands into small fists. Glenn says something else, and then presses his forehead to Felix’s own. It’s steady and solid and Sylvain finds himself gazing longingly at them, at the way their mouths move with presumed genuine words under the hum of the hunting party’s mirth. He briefly wonders what it might be like to have Glenn as a brother. Even briefer, as a fiancé. The thought feels so sharp in his heart he immediately halts it.

The heavy, gloved hand of Margrave Gautier falls on Sylvain’s shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” his father says. That’s all his father says. His father offers even less to Miklan, clicking his tongue at the eldest and gesturing his head in signal of their departure. Miklan rises to his feet. Sylvain avoids eye contact.

The three of them leave the amassed audience and walk back towards the main camp. It’s silent. A few men follow behind them, some Gautier knights, some servants leading horses and holding lances that were not stored away before the returned party shifted towards the riverbank. 

“You don’t have any Fraldarius guard dogs at home,” Miklan states, over the minimal sound of boots crunching leaves. “Remember that.”

“You don’t have a river to drown me in, either,” Sylvain replies. His voice is deprived of any emotion he may be feeling. He is deprived of any emotion he may be feeling.

Miklan laughs. “Do you really think me that uncreative?”

“Boys,” Margrave Gautier says, threatening, and they both silence themselves. 

The night is a cold one.

It’s relief, not warmth, that draws Sylvain out of his tent when the autumn moon is high and the perimeter guards are drunk. One sees him slip from the encampment and offers him only a tip of his tankard. There is nothing to be feared in the royal woods, and their current duty is largely a formality. Sylvain is free to run.

He is no longer bound by the heavy snores of Miklan and the weight of his father’s mere presence. Freedom coats his still-raw lungs with a soothing salve. He sneaks into the trees. To the particular tree marked with the royal insignia, designating the entire land for Blaiddyd hunting grounds.

Ingrid is already there. She stands like a pale ghost in the moonlight, her nightgown fluttering around her shins. She paces as if wracked with unfinished business. Her face has been cleared of blood but purple blossoms where a few bitter impacts had hit the lines of her skull. She catches sight of him, and her expression lifts.

“Ingrid,” he says, darting a few steps forward. She meets him. They fall into each other with a blunt thump of bodies. Ingrid’s bare arms are chilled when they string around Sylvain’s neck and pull him into a hug. His own curl around her back and squeeze. They stay there for longer than necessary but no longer than wanted. 

“You’re hurt,” Sylvain mumbles into the side of her head. Her thick hair is getting long, now, no longer the boyish cut of their childhood. When she shakes her head it sways over her shoulders and brushes his face. 

“It’s just some swelling,” she replies. She pulls back, but her hands slide up to cup Sylvain’s cheeks. “Glenn visited me! He brought a Fraldarius healer with him.”

“It’s bruised,” Sylvain says. “I can see it.”

“It looks worse in the dark.”

“That’s—you know that doesn’t make sense, right?”

Ingrid’s cheeks puff out. She says, “you’re breathing. That’s all that matters.”

“I don’t know about that,” he replies, tracing the outline of a blooming black eye with his gaze.

There’s a crunch of earth behind them, and Sylvain looks over to see Felix entering the clearing. Ingrid dips her body to the right to see around Sylvain. “Felix!” she calls, her heightened voice as hushed as she can manage.

“You’re okay,” Sylvain adds.

Felix smiles at both of them. It is the same, broad smile he’s had since they were children, always a little too revealing but earnest all the same. His arm is bandaged and he’s wearing new clothes: a light, sleeveless tunic that looks too large for him but allows his injured arm freedom, and sleep pants with boots. When he rushes forward he doesn’t stop—barreling into Sylvain with an aggressive hug, his forehead colliding with Sylvain’s chest.

“Oof, alright, easy now. I’m alive, aren’t I?” Sylvain calls. 

Felix rubs his face back and forth across Sylvain’s chest. It’s strangely cat-like, the youngest Fraldarius showing gruff, physical affection with no words. Sylvain pats him on the head. “It’s good to see you, too. Your arm all healed up?”

Felix pauses, and finally steps back. “My father’s mad,” he says, instead of a formal answer. His smile falls flat.

“We had to stop him,” Ingrid says, assured, still tucked under Sylvain’s arm, “didn’t we? He has no right to chastise you, Felix—“

“My father wants to file a border dispute.”

Sylvain’s blood runs cold. His posture must shift, because Ingrid’s attention snaps up to him. “Sylvain,” she starts to say. Worried, suddenly. He doesn’t look back to her.

“There’s no need for that,” Sylvain says.

Felix shakes his head. He sniffs, and Sylvain doesn’t know if it’s from the cold or from yet another of Felix’s emotional spells. “He deserves it,” Felix mutters, his voice a young whine that catches on Sylvain’s temper.

“Miklan is my brother,” Sylvain says, expression darkening, “a dispute against him could ruin what’s left of his—“

“It’s not against him.” Felix shoves an arm across his nose.

“What?” Sylvain asks.

“Not against him,” Felix echoes. “Against your father.”

Sylvain does not respond. He feels frigid, paralyzed, like he’s caught in the sight of hunting dogs. They swarm his senses and he wants to run. He almost does, balance catching as he takes blind steps backwards. Away from Ingrid’s warm embrace, away from both of them. “For what?” Sylvain demands. The heat in his voice must not have been expected because the younger boy startles.

“For,” he starts, “for his crest thing. For you—and Miklan! The way he just lets you two—like he wants it to happen!”

“We got in a fight,” Sylvain says.

“Miklan nearly—“

“He didn’t. I’m right here. This isn’t my father’s doing.”

“Don’t be... daft,” Ingrid’s voice slices through his core. He looks sharply to his left. “He’s done this to you.”

“It isn’t,” Sylvain says, “this is between me and Miklan.”

“This is your father’s fault,” Ingrid pushes.

 _“My father_ defends your lands from Sreng.”

Sylvain’s voice is so scathing it burns in his own mouth. Ingrid’s face contorts, and she looks like she might cry. Felix does.

“It’s not fair!” he yells, throat cluttered with mucus, eyes speckled with fat tears. “Stop defending him!”

“You’re going to cause a national incident for being a crybaby!” Sylvain yells at him. “You already have!”

“It’s not fair!” Felix screams back, and Sylvain becomes aware of just how wide the two years’ gap is between them. Felix balls his fists and stomps forward, every inch of him a child, and for a second Sylvain expects him to lash out, to drop him to the ground and show Sylvain what it’s like to be under an unmastered, unrestrained Fraldarius crest. Instead, Felix scrunches his face and says, “...Glenn is worried.”

Sylvain falters.

Ingrid adds, quietly, “he told me the same.”

“Glenn is not my brother, or my future husband, so he can stay out of my business,” Sylvain says.

Felix bolts forward and clings to Sylvain. Quick and aggressive and simple. Sylvain tenses up beneath the action, a few moments passing before he realizes it is another hug. “Sylvain,” Felix whines into Sylvain’s sleepshirt.

“Stay out of my business.”

“I’ve never seen you mad before.”

Sylvain forces himself to relax. He unpins the tension in his muscles, fiber by fiber. He pats Felix on the back, once. “I don’t like being mad,” he replies.

“You can come and stay with us,” Felix says, “for the winter. Glenn said you could.”

“I’ve got to go home,” Sylvain tells him.

He looks up and past where Felix clutches at his pajamas. Ingrid is standing alone, again, her body small and bruised and wraith-like beneath the moon. She’s got a pensive look on her face. 

“You’re just going to accept this?” she asks. “Forever?”

Sylvain smiles. Tight and false. “I’ll be older someday. I’m counting it.” He looks down at Felix, “you will too.”

“Getting older won’t change anything,” Felix says. “I’m still going to hate him. Both of them. I’ll remember everything. I will.”

Sylvain tells him, “that’s no way to be a diplomat. Let it go.”

Felix wipes at his face, again. “Glenn’s the heir,” he says, as seriously as Sylvain can bear to take him. “I don’t have to be.”

“Let’s…” Ingrid’s voice is clear but hesitant. She’s unsure, but not clouded with the heavy emotions plaguing Felix. “Let’s sit down.”

Sylvain allows Ingrid to lead him to the base of the great tree that stakes the territory as Dimitri’s. Sylvain rests himself beneath it. He sighs.

Felix sits down directly besides him. Felix stays there, stiff, for a few moments longer than Sylvain expects. And then Felix gives, tucking himself at Sylvain’s side and burrowing at Sylvain’s arm until Sylvain relents and lifts it over him. 

Ingrid politely tucks herself at his other hip. He welcomes her, and her head settles against his shoulder.

“Don’t get mad again,” Felix says.

“You get mad all the time,” Sylvain reminds him.

“I’ll get mad for you,” Felix says. “Don’t get mad. I don’t like it.”

“Felix,” Ingrid prompts. 

“‘M just saying,” Felix finishes.

“Sylvain’s tired. He’s been through a lot today.”

“Oh? I’m the one who’s been through a lot?” Sylvain says, voice pitching upwards. Light and even, he laughs, “I’ve barely got a scratch on me. Meanwhile you two look like you just dragged yourselves out of the eternal flames.”

“You should rest,” Ingrid says.

“I’m alright, Ingrid. I promise.”

When Glenn enters the perimeter of their small patch of forest a few hours later, Sylvain is still awake. He looks up. Ingrid and Felix are tucked under each of his arms. Both of them are asleep as soundly as the dead. Glenn’s posture relaxes, looking relieved to see his missing younger brother is just a few stones from the camp proper.

“They do nothing but talk about you,” Glenn tells him, hushed, reaching down to pick up the limp body of his little brother. Sylvain does not know how to respond. Glen continues, “do you think you can carry Ingrid for me? Her father will wake up the entire encampment if he finds her missing.”

“Yes,” Sylvain replies.

Glenn stands up straight, Felix wrapped in his arms yet again. That same longing as before strikes Sylvain deep in his chest. Something aches, insatiable, but he smooths it over with the task at hand. He struggles to raise Ingrid up but she’s short, and a heavy sleeper. He clumsily lifts her into his arms but he manages. He feels like a knight.

“Thank you,” Glenn tells him, and he can almost physically feel this moment etching itself into his memory. Glenn looks soft in the dim moonlight. His hair is not latched tight behind his head. He smiles at Sylvain, and asks: “you’ll look out for them for me, won’t you?”

Sylvain nods, fast, and Glenn’s smile grows even wider.

  
  


  
SPRING

Felix arrives in Gautier territory the morning of the spring tournament. He’s seventeen—too old to garner praise for his potential at such events but too young to have the experience to compete with the proper knights outside sparring games. It’s frustrating but ultimately unimportant. Nothing more than another layer of infantile he strives to tear through on his quest to adulthood.

Guatier is a chilled but welcoming host territory. He abandons his father and their Fraldarius convoy the second they set foot inside the estate. He finds Ingrid and Sylvain present in the dining hall. He’s not sure if they are waiting on him, but they are together. Ingrid’s hair is tightly braided behind her back and her short frame is already dressed in armor for the lancing drives taking place that afternoon. She sits apart from Sylvain. He’s talking to her. She is favoring her lunch over his words, head tilted away from him and mouth full of sliced, cured beef.

“Do I need to handle him,” Felix says in greeting. Both of their attentions snap to his entrance. He’s not one for sentimentality, but there is a pleased trill in his chest when their faces light up at the sight of him. 

“Felix,” Ingrid smiles.

“Hey, man,” Sylvain adds.

“What’d he do.”

“It’s fine,” Ingrid says.

“Fine,” Felix echoes.

“Yes,” Ingrid says, a smile forged on her face. “Everything is fine.”

“I’ll hand him his ass, if you’d like.”

Sylvain laughs, “I’ve got my whole ass right here, thanks.”

Felix sits across from Ingrid, next to Sylvain. Ingrid is stiff. She refuses to make eye contact with their eldest friend. Sylvain has that sheepish, downplaying energy that Felix knows all too well.

“Apologize,” Felix says.

“What?” Sylvain says. 

“I don’t know what you did but I haven’t seen the two of you in five months. I’m not going to let you turn this tournament into an even bigger ordeal for me. Apologize.”

“You missed us?” Ingrid says.

Felix snorts. “It hasn’t even been half a year.”

“You missed us,” Sylvain continues. “Most of us’d enjoy a vacation to the capital, you know.”

“Not if you’re playing footman to that boar,” Felix states. He looks between them, expectant. “Well? Are you two going to make good or will I have to draft the treaty myself?”

They sit still and silent, both of them, for a long moment. Ingrid lifts her chin.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Sylvain’s expression instantly sours. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Do what? Be the bigger man?” Ingrid responds.

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m the one that slapped you—“

“I should have sent a letter when I knew I was in the clear,” Sylvain says. “I should have. I didn’t realize you’d be so upset—“

“Oh, yes. Because I was the one getting emotional about it,” Ingrid snaps back. 

“What happened?” Felix interrupts. More silence greets him. They look away from one another. His eyes narrow: “answer me.”

“A month ago Sylvain sent me a very scattered letter informing me that one of the women he had slept with was pregnant,” Ingrid states. Her voice is sharp.

“I said she was late on her cycle,” Sylvain says.

“And was prone to irregularities, apparently. Though he failed to mention that in the nonexistent responses to my correspondence.”

“I was put on border patrol up north for two weeks,” Sylvain replies, tone falling. “And she was just fucking late.”

“You could have sent a messenger down from the border with one letter,” Ingrid says. “You could have done anything to make me look less of a fool. Stumbling in off an overworked pegasus, drenched with rain, clinging to your shoulders and cooing to you that everything will be okay like I’m—like I’m your _mother_ —“ Ingrid stands up abruptly. “I have to saddle my horse.”

“‘Grid,” Sylvain calls after her as she steps over the bench seat of the dining hall. She starts to walk away. His voice rises, “I’m sorry!”

“You always are,” she says, then stops. She looks over her shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Felix. Let’s have dinner together this evening.”

Felix gives her an agreeing nod and she swiftly departs. 

When she is out of sight his face dips downwards, dark. He looks over at Sylvain. 

“What,” Sylvain says.

“You’re despicable,” Felix replies.

“But very good at pulling out. So everything’s fine.” Sylvain extends a laugh. When Felix does not catch and reciprocate, it staggers to a stop in his chest.

“You’re playing dangerous,” Felix replies. “Did she really slap you?”

“Her crest triggered when she did,” Sylvain says. “Knocked me straight to the ground. That’s why she feels bad. ‘We’re not kids anymore,’ or whatever.”

“So it has nothing to do with the fact that she rode all the way from Galatea to be made into a fool?”

“She’s not a fool for caring about me,” Sylvain says. “If I was in her position I’d just be happy to hear she didn’t get herself knocked up and go the fuck home.”

“And did she go home?”

“...No? No.”

Felix levels an unimpressed stare at him. 

Sylvain sighs. “Of course Ingrid didn’t go home. Ingrid went and talked to her. The girl, I mean. I’d had a falling out with her when she told me she was late, naturally. Said some nasty stuff about it not being mine. Not proud of it. I don’t know what she and Ingrid could have possibly chatted about but when they both walked out of there they looked friendly, and acted friendly to me. You know, as friendly as you can tell with women. So. Problem solved.”

“Ingrid cleans up your mess again,” Felix notes.

Sylvain nods. “As long as she wants to keep doing it I’m going to let her.”

“She’s mentioned to me she feels like a traitor,” Felix says.

“To who?” Sylvain blinks. “Me?”

“No. What do you mean, ‘me?’ To women.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes. “Women are traitors to Ingrid,” he says, with such conviction Felix grimaces. “You’ve seen the shit she gets put through. In a kinder world the Goddess would have let her be born a man.”

“Because that’s worked out so well for us so far,” Felix states, dry. Sylvain does not grace him with a response and that strikes Felix as preferable for both of them. This is not how he planned their reunion to go. Felix thinks of Ingrid, and decides to find her in the stables to wish her luck and a steady arm before the tourney. He shifts. Stands. Steps over the dining table bench, too. Says, “aren’t you jousting this afternoon also? You should be getting ready.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Nah. Not in the mood to face off against Ingrid. Was thinking of switching to swords for the morning bouts.”

Felix lets out an amused scoff. “I thought you said you didn’t want to get your ass handed to you.”

“Between you and Ingrid, I’m in a lose-lose situation,” Sylvain groans. “Unless I decide to pick up axe throwing, I guess. At least with swords everyone will politely clap at my pretty face hitting the ground and nod their heads and say, ‘as expected, facing off against a Fraldarius.’” His voice lilts up at the end, a mocking echo of Faerghus high society. 

“Good to see you caring about your reputation for once.”

“Your Prince is here. My dad is in a state.”

Felix claps Sylvain on the shoulder. “And at mention of The Boar, I’ll make my exit.”

“Send His Highness my best wishes,” Sylvain smiles.

“You really are looking for trouble.”

Sylvain waves him a farewell. “Always. Do me a favor and put me out of my misery in the tourney tomorrow, hm?”

“Happily, and easily.”

There is a piece of Felix that urges him to stay. Sylvain is left in the dining room behind him, alone, and it doesn’t sit right in Felix’s stomach. He strides forward but something is bothering him. There is something wrong, wronger than the false flag of a pregnancy. He has no reasoning beyond pure instinct but it eats at him. He turns back around.

“Sylvain,” he says. Sylvain glances up from a meal he is not eating. “...You are coming tonight, right?”

Felix leaves his room an hour or so after the hall candles have been extinguished. 

The mountainous Gautier estate is large, despite showing its age, and Felix is afforded his own room away from his father and their accompanying knights. He abandons them without notice or incident.

He cannot, however, escape the unfortunate gaze of a roaming boar. He meets Dimitri head-on in an eastern hall during his escape. Dimitri startles only when Felix is within feet of him—as if he had been off in some dark, unknown world and only Felix’s proximity had ripped him back to reality. Felix must stop himself from letting out an angry sigh.

“Felix,” Dimitri says, all surprise and feigned pleasantness. 

“It’s late,” Felix says, short.

“Ah. Yes, I,” Dimitri nods. “I was just taking an evening walk.”

“Your rooms are on the third floor,” Felix reminds him.

“...Yes. The air is fresher down here.”

Felix narrows his eyes. He tilts his head, looking over the goalless path Dimitri had trailed from. “Where’s your handler? If you need a sleeping tonic he always has your tea on hand.”

“He’s…” Dimitri starts. “Don’t. Don’t tell Dedue you saw me. He’s been on edge recently and I am—” he halts himself. “I am fine. He just worries.”

Dimitri is scattered, struggling to maintain his princely mask in wake of a surprise discovery.

“Dedue is not someone I go out of my way to make conversation with,” Felix tells him.

“...I know that,” Dimitri replies. “All the same.”

Felix shoulders past him, towards the greenhouse. He decides to offer an easy truce. “The relationship between a boar and the man that tends his pen is none of my business,” he tells Dimitri as he passes. 

“Thank you for your silence,” Dimitri replies, so genuine in its quest for retained image Felix feels a pit of spite spike in his stomach.

“It’s been earned.”

The rest of the walk to the greenhouse is short. Spring is still crisp in Faerghus and Felix keeps his cape close as he tramples over the shrubland of the estate yard. The greenhouse is nearly as old as the castle proper, and its windows are dusty and cracked. The internal greenery is overgrown with a lack of dedicated care. Sylvain’s father was not one for flowers, Felix supposes. He was never one for anything that didn’t have a blade fashioned to it. 

Sylvain is seated at the dry fountain in the center when Felix enters. Felix steps across the sprawl of native weeds covering the floor and peaking up between cracked cobblestones. The heavy moon shines bright above, coating the room in a sickly pale blue light.

“Hey,” Sylvain says. He’s leaning forward onto where his forearms rest on his legs, posture bored but expectant. He’s dressed in riding clothes.

“Hello,” Felix returns. “No Ingrid?”

“No Ingrid.”

“I’ll retrieve her. She said she was coming when I talked to her before her joust.”

“I heard she won,” Sylvain says. When Felix starts to step back he rushes out, “no, stay.”

Felix does not answer but he does stop.

“Stay,” Sylvain says. “Please.”

Felix nods. “If you’ll tell me what is plaguing you so relentlessly.”

“You think something’s wrong?”

“You’re off-stance.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Ingrid’s mad.”

“If either of you really cared about your common spats, you would have gotten yourself together long before now. What’s happened?”

Felix’s demands are met with a blank face from Sylvain. “Sylvain,” he barks out.

“Come sit down,” Sylvain says, “please.”

The formalness is unnerving. Felix strides forward and takes a seat on the fountain next to Sylvain. They are motionless there, together and in silence.

“I’m sitting,” Felix says.

“Right,” Sylvain replies, and then doesn’t continue. He becomes preoccupied with gazing out a pane of the windowed wall, too dilapidated to give more than a cracked, cobwebbed visage of the yard beyond. Felix kicks at his leg. 

“Ouch,” Sylvain says. “I’m trying to cultivate a moment with you here, man.” 

Felix snorts. “I know. That’s why I’m concerned.”

“What? You don’t think I can be emotionally available?”

“You’re being pretty damn quiet for someone… who…”

Felix falls silent. Sylvain is leaning forward, leaning towards him. Sylvain’s hand extends and settles on the stone fountaintop on the other side of his legs. Sylvain’s upper body straddles him, his face dipping forward. He’s completely unreadable like this. Sylvain sometimes is—not merely evergreen with composed cheer but this, completely opaque. 

“Sylvain,” Felix says. 

“Remember Fraldarius? Just after the harvest?” Sylvain asks. He’s close enough now that Felix cannot even read his expression. He can only see his eyes, and the loose strings of red hair that fall over his forehead.

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Ingrid is coming,” Felix reminds him.

“Ingrid wants nothing to do with me.”

Felix’s hand draws up and presses to Sylvain’s chest. “...What are you doing?”

“Same thing I did in Fraldarius. What do you think I’m doing?”

“You don’t—” Felix feels a wave of anger rise within him. It’s sharp and violent and… unfamiliar. He feels his cheeks redden. He collects his thoughts. Distantly, he wonders if the sensation is even anger. “Our tastes do not align. Don’t pretend that they do.”

“‘Tastes,’” Sylvain parrots back at him.

“You like women.”

“Certainly,” Sylvain says. “Didn’t stop you from getting handsy with me before, now did it?”

“You offered,” Felix mutters.

“And I am again,” Sylvain replies, simply.

Felix’s mouth clamps shut. He doesn’t like being knocked off his guard, even if it is by a man he’d gladly trust with his life.

“Ingrid is…” Felix’s words die in his throat. Sylvain kisses him like he had in Fraldarius, easy and experienced and mouthing at a tense wall of uncertain posture. Felix attempts to kiss back and Sylvain dives further, his far hand sliding over the fountain stone until it reaches Felix’s thigh, cupping under it. The other settles behind the small of Felix’s back and he is tipped backwards. He is dipped down, and the sudden vertigo makes his eyes flutter open. He stiffens—and Sylvain knows his body well enough to sense it. Sylvain halts. The moment dwindles, Felix held off-balance, their mouths still connected. 

Felix pulls his lips away. He shakes his head to clear it. 

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

“Oh?” Sylvain pulls back, just a little. It rights both of them.

“This isn’t like it was in Fraldarius,” Felix says. It’s accusative and, again, he has no proof, no reason. Only instinct.

“I’d like it to be,” Sylvain says.

“It isn’t,” Felix explains. “You were happy in Fraldarius.”

“I’m happy now.”

“I don’t know what you are but it is not happy.”

Sylvain’s expression grows cold. “Damn it, Felix. Do you want me or not?”

There is an intensity to Sylvain’s voice that snaps Felix out of the slurred haze that desires the man in front of him. Felix pushes back fully, this time, and Sylvain concedes. He pulls his body away and they’re sitting there once more. Together. No longer touching. 

“Alright,” Sylvain says. A frosty silence is forged between them. Felix shifts his cape. “Never mind.”

“You’ve been avoiding Ingrid,” Felix notes. He is not looking at Sylvain, not really. He is distracted. “You would never let something come between the two of you for this long. She tried to apologize, that’s how long it’s been. You—”

“Stop bringing up Ingrid,” Sylvain bites back.

“What _happened,”_ Felix nearly yells, and then halts. Without the prickle of anger and the lingering wave of whatever had overtaken him that was not anger, he senses a presence. His gaze whips away from Sylvain back towards the greenhouse landing. Beside him, Sylvain’s head moves to follow.

Ingrid stands in the open doorway. Her hair is long, unbraided. She nods in recognition that she has been noticed. Felix has no idea how long she has been standing there. She offers, “Sylvain propositioned me,” her voice quite even, given the context, “a month ago, when I was in Gautier. I turned him down. We didn’t talk about it afterwards, and haven’t spoken about it since.” She raises a folded piece of parchment in her hand. “That’s not what he’s upset about.”

She steps forward and Felix looks to Sylvain. Sylvain is shocked—frozen solid at Ingrid’s presence. Ingrid hands the letter to Felix. Sylvain does not take his eyes off of her.

“You came,” he says, finally. He sounds winded. Hoarse.

“Of course,” Ingrid says, “always.”

“I thought you were asleep,” Sylvain says, weak.

“What is this?” Felix folds open the letter.

“Someone pinned it to my door, presumably to find when I awoke in the morning had I not had somewhere to be tonight,” Ingrid says. Her tone is pointed. 

The handwriting is a haphazard scrawl. Clearly Sylvain’s, but with penmanship less composed than even the most rushed letters Felix has ever received from him. 

> _Ingrid._
> 
> _Two nights ago a group of bandits raided our armory. The Lance of Ruin is gone. My father has asked me to take a battalion and exterminate Miklan the hour the tournament is over and our host duties are complete._
> 
> _I’m riding south to Conand Tower tonight to speak with him. I’ll reason with him. He doesn’t need to die over some rusted, stupid weapon. I don’t care what my father says._
> 
> _If that doesn’t work, well. You know where my body is._
> 
> _Sylvain_

Felix does not move when his eyes run out of words to read.

“...I didn’t think you’d come,” Sylvain repeats.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid starts. Suddenly, she sounds hurt. Her arms cross in front of her body.

He replies, “I’m sorry—“

“You’re sorry you got caught,” Ingrid says. “You’re sorry I cared enough to come tonight. You’re sorry you wanted to see Felix one last time.”

“I wasn’t going to die,” Sylvain says.

Felix crumples the note in his hand. They pause. Time draws back like a bow, both of them waiting for Felix to fire off any kind of reaction. 

Felix stands. He looks down at Sylvain. “Felix,” Sylvain pleads.

“He would have killed you.”

Felix throws the note at Sylvain and it bounces off of his chest with a slight crinkle.

“I need to talk to him,” Sylvain says.

“He will kill you,” Felix repeats.

“I can’t just—” Sylvain steels himself. Felix sees him lock down, his shoulders taut and stiff. “I can kill him. I will kill him if I have to. I don’t want to, but I will.”

“Alongside fifty of his closest friends?” Ingrid asks. “That’s maddening. I don’t care if they are just common bandits. What were you thinking?”

“He wasn’t,” Felix says.

Sylvain clenches his fists. “I’m going to talk to him, not kill him. It doesn’t have to come to blows.”

“It will,” Felix says.

“It doesn’t have to.”

Ingrid's brow furrows. “—You want an intervention, then? Now?”

Sylvain does not respond for a long moment. He does not hold eyes with either of them. He says, finally, “yes.”

Then, “I can’t not try. I can’t live with that.”

Felix and Ingrid glance at one another. She unravels her arms, letting them fall to her sides. She sighs, defeated. 

“We’ll go,” she says, “with you. If you must.”

She’s still looking at Felix, waiting for appraisal on the idea. She continues, to him: “won’t we?”

“Of course,” Felix confirms. 

Sylvain has his face in his hands. He holds his temples. Rubs them, with stress and frustration. He drags his head up and shakes it.

“No way,” he says.

“There’s a reason your father wanted you to take a battalion,” Felix says.

“And that reason was to kill his firstborn son,” Sylvain shoots back. “I’m going alone. I have to go alone.”

Felix’s face contorts in anger. He says, “you’ve got a deathwish and it’s as selfish as your reputation makes you out to be.”

“Felix—”

“We’re going,” Ingrid states.

“If Felix goes he’ll only aggravate the situation,” Sylvain says. “Miklan will attempt to kill him on sight.”

“Then I’ll go,” Ingrid states, stronger.

“Ingrid, you can’t. You absolutely can’t.”

Ingrid’s head tips back in offense. “I can’t?”

“He’s…” Sylvain withers, and Felix sees true fear spread across his face for the first time since they’ve started this conversation largely revolving around his potential death.

“What?” she demands.

Sylvain looks down. “...There’s reports Miklan’s been abducting women in Srengi bordertowns.” He pauses. “I can’t have that. You near that.”

The greenhouse is pretty, in its own way. They are arranged in their usual, standoffish triangle. A jungle of native weeds surround them, clustering over flowerboxes reserved for foreign cuttings. None of them speak in the ensuing standoff. Felix shifts his weight from one foot to the other. There is a protective streak that has always run through him that agrees with Sylvain. It’s knightly, chivalrous in a way that makes him sick. In a way that would bring Ingrid cause to smack him.

Ingrid hasn’t said anything. Her silence becomes more apparent the longer it drags out.

Felix sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. “Ingrid stays,” he says. “I’ll go. I’ll behave.”

“Absolutely not,” Ingrid snaps, at the same time Sylvain calls out, “neither of you are going anywhere.”

And then they’re there, again. A quiet trio in the great, once-grand greenhouse. 

“...Nothing will happen,” Ingrid says. “You sound like my father. Both of you. I won’t let that happen. You two won’t let that happen.”

“We won’t,” Felix affirms. He sighs. “She’s right. The two of us can go. We can help.”

“And Felix will behave,” she says.

Felix nods, firm.

“Let us go with you,” she asks, near begs. “If you must talk with him, let us help you. Please.”

They both linger before Sylvain. Above him, where he sits on the edge of the cracked old fountain with no water. He starts to shake his head but he falters, his mouth opening to form words he does not give voice to. He lets out a breath—a harsh one, exasperated. His palms press down into the fountain stone and lift him up. He stands. 

“...Fine,” he says. 

Ingrid carries herself forward and embraces him. He reacts the way he usually does: surprised, before sinking down into the unexpected affection. Felix does not join them. He stays on the outskirts. Sylvain meets his eye from where he tucks his face over Ingrid’s shoulder.

“You’ll stay back. Keep your mouths shut. Don’t escalate,” Sylvain says. Mostly to Felix. Felix knows this. 

“We’ll protect you,” Felix tells him, in pact. The kind of unspoken, unbreakable pacts that are the most intimate thing he allows himself to maintain in his relationships. The kind he’s always shared with Sylvain.

“We will,” Ingrid confirms.

“Okay,” he says, he relaxes a little further into her arms. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They set off at the tip of dawn, the trail rocky and disused towards the abandoned military tower. It’s later than Sylvain wanted but Ingrid had convinced both of them they should get some sleep before setting out. And they had, together, tucked besides one another on Sylvain’s bed like the children they once were. Felix had awoken groggy. He had buckled his armor with irritation, waiting for Sylvain to decide to back out of the ordeal entirely. His patience did not bear fruit. Felix rides a borrowed horse and realizes, with the peak of the sun, their fate is set.

He and Sylvain will be missing the sword tournament. Felix’s father will realize his absence soon enough. But that was an issue to be handled at a separate time.

Felix is a competent enough rider. Not as good as Sylvain, who strides forward with determination, nor Ingrid, who has traded in her pegasus for a sturdier Gautier steed. But he is serviceable. He climbs up the mountainous path with little problem. None of them speak, but he knows their thoughts lie on the same goals. 

Deliver Sylvain to Miklan. Don’t die. 

Felix has little stake in this game beyond preserving Sylvain’s life, and treats it as he would a royal escort for Dimitri. Sylvain’s continued existence is enough to justify any effort expended. He and Ingrid’s opinion of Miklan has long soured to something unsalvageable but their devotion to Sylvain is unmatched, and unbreakable. 

His thoughts briefly float to how much of his devotion Ingrid had witnessed in the greenhouse, but he shoves these away. She possesses her own history with Sylvain and neither of these pasts are likely to come up in conversation. They don’t talk about these things, any of them. Felix assumes this is probably for the best.

“Tower’s on the horizon,” Ingrid reports. The sun is high in the sky now. Her chin is lifted, her eyes squinting for a clearer picture.

“You two ready?” Sylvain asks from where he’s taken point on their journey. Felix cannot see his face but he senses the waver in his voice.

“We’ve got your back,” Felix responds.

 _We’ll protect you,_ thrums in his blood on the trail to Conand, and thrums even louder at the center of the tower. _I’ll protect you,_ it morphs, when the fighting breaks out. 

_I’ll protect you. I’ll protect you, protect you._ _I will._ Felix sometimes wonders how much of the instinct that runs in his head is his own and what stems from the major crest in his blood—what is him and what is the voice of some long-dead pegasus knight, seated at the right hand of the King of Liberation.

“Sylvain!” Felix screams, voice ragged with assertion. He kicks a dirty hit at the legs of the bandit he’s locked swords with and the man tumbles to the ground. Felix banks a launching foot against the floor and darts forward through the overwhelming wave of enemies. Felix abandoned his horse when the violence first broke out and he is now on foot, returned to his element.

 _I’ll protect you._ It courses through his blood as Ingrid shrieks and they both watch Sylvain’s negotiations disintegrate further and his warhorse tip sideways. A lance sticks out of the mount’s gorged side. It is unquestionably the Lance of Ruin, red and angry, its jagged teeth clattering with fury at the base of its sharp, embedded blade.

Sylvain’s leg is pinned beneath his bleeding horse. The horse bucks and bays on its side, crushing down on the limb and making him yell out in pain. Sylvain’s own lance has fallen from his hands, out of his reach. 

Miklan lifts the lance from the horse with a sickening squelch. Miklan looks worse than Felix has ever seen him, ragged and scarred and clinging to the ancient Gautier lance like a lifeline. He’s desperate, eyes blown wide with fear, but he still yells out in victory as Sylvain struggles to free himself from beneath his own horse.

“Miklan,” Sylvain says, and it’s laced with a lethal concoction of emotions. Felix hates hearing it. “Stand down. We didn’t come here to kill you.”

Miklan laughs. Near-hysterical. He says, “ _you came here to die—_ ” and then Ingrid is there. Faster than Felix, still on horseback. Her horse rears up and stamps in front of Miklan. Miklan, frenzied with preservative instinct, steps back. His stolen weapon drips with fresh blood. 

“He’s telling the truth,” she says, bold, atop her horse. Her braid has come loose within the worst of the action and her hair is frazzled around her. “Your father ordered your execution for the theft of the lance. Sylvain came here to recover it. And spare you.”

The lance gripped in Miklan’s hand continues to chatter, bones knocking against themselves in anger. A stray thief fires an arrow at Ingrid and she expertly sidesteps it on horseback. 

“You,” Miklan says, out of breath, still, “you’re the Galatea whore.” He laughs again, head tilting to tell the surrounding gang, “this pretty mare’s father tried to sell her to half the royal court.”

“—We came here to negotiate,” Ingrid declares, even as laughter bubbles up around her. Felix eyes a pack of reinforcements moving in from behind him. Felix strides forward, wary and warm-blooded and itching to attack. Ingrid stays planted between Miklan and Sylvain. Sylvain continues to struggle, his fingers digging into a crevice on the ground. The leverage is just enough for him to begin to pull his leg out from its pin.

“Ingrid,” he gasps. “Don’t.”

“Tell me,” Miklan says, leaning on the lance burning red-hot in his hands. Felix runs even faster. “Is my little brother still desperate to put a baby in you?”

“We are here to salvage your life,” Ingrid yells down at him.

“If he won’t do it, I will,” he tells her, teeth bared like wolf-fangs in his sharp sneer. “Yeah,” he says, the lance pulling back for another attack, “I think I’ll keep you.”

She’s on her guard the second his attack is projected. Her weapon is slid up to an angle, prepared to parry. Her arm carries perfect form. Defensive, reactive, meeting action with action. A true knight. 

Felix tackles Miklan to the ground.

 _“I'll kill you!_ ” he screams, the thrumming notions of _protect_ breaking way to _kill_.

Miklan has gotten better at grappling. He rolls with the tackle effortlessly and shifts the momentum of the dip of the fall in his favor. He flings Felix back off of him, Felix’s body skidding across the floor until he can right himself and charge back at the mockery of Faerghan nobility. 

“Dog,” Miklan calls him, right before Felix’s crest triggers and a heavy bodyshot nails into Miklan’s chest. It dents the metal covering it. Miklan’s foot stumbles back but he takes the impact. He only has aged, cracked armor on but he takes it, directly. The thin lines of the Fraldarius symbol flicker and dissipate, their job complete. The rush of action settles and Felix feels a horrible ache in his knuckles. Felix stands there, blossoming with pain, with his fist against a wall of forged steel. 

Miklan laughs at him now. An armored glove shoots out at Felix’s head and takes it in its grip. The pressure on his skull is excruciating. A knee finds his stomach, twice, and then he’s thrown to the ground.

“Nice crest,” Miklan hisses. His voice slices clean and deep through the cheers of the surrounding gang. Felix coughs, violently. He urges the wind to return to his lungs. 

“—Felix!” Ingrid calls to him, distantly. When his eyes refocus he can see her fighting off a group of the thieves. She swings her lance wide to keep them at bay, and away from Sylvain, who is crawling to retrieve his own weapon. Felix can tell by the drag of Sylvain’s freed leg that it is probably broken.

Miklan readies the Lance of Ruin and stalks forward. It’s furious in his hands, clicking against itself. The stone in its core flashes erratically. Felix attempts to stand. He attempts to prepare for a well-timed dodge.

“So loyal,” Miklan chides. He’s panting, eyes dilated. The muscles in his neck and jaw and around his eyes twitch. Something is wrong. “...I’m going to kill him, you know. I am. Right in front of you.” He sucks in an excited breath. _“Finally._ ”

When Felix does not respond, Miklan stomps forward. Says, “I’ll make it slow.” Felix does not know where his sword has fallen, but he’s not thinking about it. Something is wrong. He’s not sure what it is but it hums in the air. It vibrates against his instincts, as loud and as harsh as if it was right next to his eardrum. He skirts backwards as Miklan presses in.

“If it hadn’t been for him…” Miklan says, and he sounds breathless. He raises the relic. “If it hadn’t been for that waste of blood…”

He takes another step forward, and Felix already knows deep in his core that it’s a step too many. His body knows what’s happening before his mind registers the lance’s jagged rejection. He can only watch in horror as the first limb of inky blackness shoots from its red-hot core.

Miklan screams.

The beast that overtakes Miklan is large, hulking, cragged, and no longer human. Miklan’s cries of terror give way to roars. The bandits, the ones Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain have not felled, stare up at it in shocked silence. Then, they bolt. They flee, not one yelling out for their leader. They trip over themselves, trip each other. They scatter across the tower towards its few exits and Felix follows them only far enough to scoop up a rusted sword one of them drops in panic. 

Ingrid joins him before the beast. She doesn’t say anything, and neither does Felix. Sylvain is gasping out something beneath the din of the monster’s thrashing but they do not engage with him either. They stand together. Ingrid lowers her weapon to spear the beast. Felix raises his, to slash.

It’s a bitter fight.

At the end, Miklan is no more.

The sun is setting by the time they gather themselves enough to consider the ride home. Sylvain is propped up against a boulder of rubble that fell from the tower’s dilapidated walls in the chaos. His leg has been set. It’s laid flat, splinted by Ingrid with the broken shaft of a spear. He stares blankly at the body of his brother. It carries no trace of the monster that had overtaken it. No trace besides the sword sticking out of its chest, the sword Felix plunged into the vulnerable underbelly of a creature beyond saving. Felix has a clear view of where Miklan rests. He bites into an apple he’s stolen from the thieves' food reserves, and does not comment.

To their left, Ingrid is kneeling besides the corpse of Sylvain’s large, chestnut warhorse. She waves away flies already beginning to settle across the day’s battlefield. Felix watches her pet an even hand down the creature’s neck. She repeats the action a few times, somber, and then lifts the unbuckled saddle from its belly. She removes the bridle, too. She shifts each piece of gear onto a collected pile of armor besides her. The horse lies naked on the cold floor.

She pets it again.

“He was a good horse,” she says, aloud. It is the first any of them have truly spoken beyond assurances they did not suffer any lethal injuries. Her voice sounds defeated, despite their victory. Sylvain does not respond. 

“...I know you cared for him,” Ingrid continues. “We can have a funeral. He served you well.”

Sylvain’s dead-eyed stare does not stray from the body of his brother.

“Rest easy, boy,” Ingrid finishes. She pats the horse one last time and stands. 

Felix kicks off from the wall he’s leaned against and lets the rest of his apple fall to the ground. He steps forward and squats down in front of Sylvain. Then, thinking about it, he settles down into a sit. Sylvain strays his eyes just barely, enough to glance at him.

“Sorry,” Felix says.

“What are you apologizing for?”

Felix gestures a broad hand to their surroundings. 

“The leg?” Sylvain infers. He pats at his thigh. “We’ve got healers in Gautier, you know. We aren’t that barbaric.”

“Not the leg,” Felix says. It’s a bit stern, the tone he uses when he wants to sound like his father—which is rare, and tastes terrible on his tongue. Sylvain’s hand falls back down to the stone below. 

“I’m fine,” he tells Felix.

“You’re not,” Felix replies. 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re _not._ ”

“What do you want me to do, Felix,” he says. “What do you want me to say? I’ll do it. Just tell me.”

“You can be honest,” Ingrid calls out to him. She joins them, stating, “you have that power.”

“There’s nothing we could have done,” Sylvain says. Firm. Angry.

“Me and Ingrid already know that,” Felix shoves back. 

It’s simple enough that Sylvain almost recoils. He huffs, “then why are you hassling me about it.” Sylvain shifts his posture. He sits up a little taller and Ingrid titters something about keeping his leg straight. “I’m fine,” he says, again.

Sylvain looks back to the sword-stricken corpse. The sun's setting rays creep in through the loose bricks of the tower and shattered windows. There's is nothing to say, not really, but the desire to _speak_ burns in Felix's stomach. It's foreign, and oddly communal. He frowns.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, unblinking.

“Here.”

“Bring me my lance.”

Felix glances at Sylvain’s lance, already within grasping distance.

“Not that one.”

Felix hesitates. His thoughts fall to the dormant weapon lying in the distance, and any intentions Sylvain may have with it. “Can I ask why?”

“Going to fuck it up.”

Felix does not bother to rise. Ingrid is already striding to the center of the room. She passes Miklan’s body without a second glance. She leans down for the relic. Felix sees her fingers twitch in pause, just for a second, before she takes the handle in her grip. It moves, again. A quiet little rattle as it senses her, and then her crest.

“Settle,” she tells it, and it does.

She hands it off to Sylvain. Felix says, “I’m not sure if that’s—” and Sylvain slams the lance into the ground.

Ingrid steps away. Felix sits, watching, as Sylvain throws every ounce of his might into crashing the blade of it against the cold, unforgiving stone floor. Bang after bang. The golden weapon glows in his hands. It’s a perfect synchronization between ancient bone and blood, his crest triggering a few times in the relentless assault against the foundation of Conand. His hands are low on the shaft, nearly touching the teeth that sprout from the base of the blade. His leverage is strong. The stone floor cracks beneath his effort. A Ruined Sky falls upon the earth, several times, but it does little more than pound stone into gravel. Felix and Ingrid sit back as each flicker of Sylvain’s crest sends shadows casting across the archaic walls. They say nothing as Sylvain screams out in frustration.

When Sylvain is finished the weapon appears as if it has been wielded in several dozen battles without the slightest polish of maintenance. Sylvain’s breath comes heavy and labored. He stares down at it. It stares back. Its little teeth wiggle and Sylvain throws it straight across the room. 

It sails like a javelin, clattering against the wall.

“Fuck,” Sylvain says, his voice falling to a cough. Ingrid kneels beside him and pats his back.

The silence is not their usual. It’s bladed, and the echo of the Lance of Ruin against unmoving ground still rings in Felix’s ears. Ingrid’s pats have stilled to a single, steady hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain’s hand raises to cover it. For a second, Felix thinks he’s going to shove it off. Instead, he just grips it tighter.

“—I’m sorry for trying to sleep with you,” he says, suddenly.

“...Goddess, Sylvain,” Ingrid says in turn.

“I just need you to know. You don’t have to forgive me.”

“I already did,” she says. “I’m... with you. You know that, right?”

“I wanted you to—” Sylvain stops himself. “I didn’t have anything else,” he says, “to offer.”

Ingrid’s shoulders fall. “I’m with you. You don’t have to—to justify that. To me or Felix.”

Felix looks away, his neck flaring hot. He feels Sylvain’s eyes trail over to him. “Even if we accept,” Felix mutters.

“Exactly,” Ingrid says, “we love you. Either way. It would take a lot to change that.”

Felix has never told Sylvain he loved him, even as a brother. It feels strange to think about. He settles for, “she’s right.”

“I am,” Ingrid adds. 

Ingrid sits back, settling in beside her oldest friend. Sylvain does not respond.

Felix coughs, dry and defensive. “I’m sorry I killed your brother,” he states, blunt to the point of brutality. “—While we’re taking time for apologies.”

Sylvain, to his surprise, laughs.

“I am,” Felix says.

“Felix, this is eight miles deeper than anything you are or have done or ever will do,” Sylvain returns. He laughs again, but it’s sad. The tips of his voice turn down at the ends. 

“I’m sorry,” Felix begins again, but Sylvain waves a dismissive hand at him.

“Don’t be,” Sylvain says. “Come sit over here.”

“Sylvain—”

“Come sit down with us,” Sylvain asks, “please.”

Felix’s father finds them there, just after dusk. He walks into a slaughtering ground of dead bandits and cracked walls and stares down at the three of them, huddled together next to a boulder of rubble and eating scavenged food rations.

“The Gautier boy’s hurt,” he tells one of the mages accompanying him out of a small, trailing battalion. She scurries forward to assist. 

Felix gazes up at him, where the aging man sits high on his dappled grey horse. His father dismounts smoothly. His boots click against the floor as he strides into the dilapidated tower, looking around at the damage they’ve wrought upon it.

“You missed your tourney,” his father says to him, even-toned. 

“Yes,” Felix says.

“Margrave Gautier went to great lengths to put on a tournament for you to prove yourself within,” he continues, “since that is all you seem to care about in recent years.”

“I am not in any mood to humor Margrave Guatier,” Felix says, sharp, in response.

Felix father sighs, long and disappointed. His gaze shifts a few inches to the left, where a holy women knits the bones of Sylvain’s leg back together. “I’m here to recover my son,” Felix’s father says to him. “Your father made me aware of the situation. Alongside your party’s presumed intentions.”

“Miklan’s dead,” Sylvain replies. Short. He pulls his repaired leg up, to flex it. The mage at his side murmurs at him in protest. He flinches in pain but the bone holds firm.

“My condolences,” Felix’s Father says, and Felix clenches his teeth to bite back a response. The man looks to Ingrid next. “The Margrave has requested this matter be kept within the confines of the concerned parties,” he tells her. “Keep your peace.”

Ingrid nods in confirmation. “Of course,” she says.

“Yes, Ingrid. Don’t go around letting the court know The Margrave lost his favorite lance,” Felix spits, unable to hold back at the submissive dip of Ingrid’s head. “Or he’ll declare war on you, too.”

“That’s enough,” Felix's father barks. And Felix feels a hand placed over his arm, holding him back.

“Let it go,” Sylvain says. He looks so tired. There are dark circles under his eyes, bruised from his own hands pressing against the sockets. “...Felix.”

Felix backs down with a scoff. He sticks an arm out, pointing to where the lance lies untouched across the tower. “There’s the fucking relic,” he says. “I hope it was worth it.”

Felix’s father’s eyes move to follow the pointed direction but catch on the body of Miklan littering the ground, and then on the sword sticking out from his chest—straight through his rugged, piecemeal armor. The Duke’s grave expression falls to something sickeningly genuine. His brow creases, his mouth forming an open frown. Felix hates it. Hates his father’s capacity to express the regret that washes over his face, the dare to even feel guilt.

“...Collect yourselves,” Felix’s father says, the old man says, after far too long. “We’ll return to Gautier tonight.”

Ingrid stands and helps support Sylvain up. Felix remains seated. 

His father stares down at him. Ever-patient. He tells him, “this feeling will pass.”

Felix spits at his boots.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: childhood abuse, attempted drowning, interpersonal violence, canon-typical violence, sexual references, referenced pregnancy scare, sexism, rape threat, implied cultural homophobia, minor character death, animal death (horse).
> 
> Note that the sexual references not involving Sylvain revolve around underage characters (17).
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me if you do or did. o/


End file.
